Mutation: The Definition of Adaptation
by emmi-hime
Summary: The events at the Three Mile Facility go a bit differently, and a cancer-ridden Wade Wilson is thrown into a cell next to Emma Frost. Wade just wants to cure his cancer so he can go back to being mercenary hot shit, while Emma is just trying to figure out an escape plan... AU X-Men: Origins Movie. Emma Frost/Wade Wilson pairing. Rated T for now.
1. Emma Broods in Captivity

Disclaimer: Do not own, etcetera.

Summary:

The events at the Three Mile Facility go a bit differently, and a cancer-ridden Wade Wilson is thrown into a cell next to Emma Frost. Wade just wants to cure his cancer so he can go back to being mercenary hot shit, while Emma is just trying to figure out an escape plan for herself and the other mutants. Somehow, in the midst of both… there's a connection that will change their paths from here on in. AU X-Men: Origins Movie. Emma Frost/Wade Wilson pairing. T rating for now, because of language and innuendo.

A/N:

I'd like to give a nod to **vampout** and her Wade Wilson/Emma Frost fic, entitled "Raised You Up." This is the fic that got me into the pairing, folks! And I'd like to add another disclaimer of sorts… Anything in my fic that resembles something from **vampout**'s story either could not be helped, or it's just a damn good plot device. So, thanks for reading my secondary disclaimer and please enjoy!

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**Mutation: The Definition of Adaptation**

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Chapter 1: In Which Emma Broods in Captivity

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Emma Frost slouched in the corner of her cage, her knees pulled up tightly to her chest. Wrapping her arms loosely around her legs, her forehead drifted down to rest against her left knee. Though the cage itself could not have been much larger than five by eight feet, the empty space within seemed extensive in comparison to her small blonde form, shrinking as far away from the entrance as she could.

Through the many months of her captivity, the girl had long ago learnt that nothing good came through the cage's door. Every now and then, she would be pulled out of the cage to be taken for testing, where Stryker's military lab-coats would poke and prod and assess her body down to every mole, monitoring even her menstrual cycle to discover just how _different_ mutants were from humans.

And maybe – just maybe, Emma thought, William Stryker was searching for a way to manipulate mutant abilities.

She could not prove it. Hell, she could barely even call it a hunch! But still… Lately, she had been able to get a little more _insight_ into the minds around her. Emma wanted to shake off the little whispers that would creep in around the edges of her mind, pretend they did not exist, but she could not. She _knew_ that the thoughts were real – _knew_ that they belonged to other people. And Emma knew that, if she could keep this telepathic potential hidden from Stryker's men, it would be a useful tool for an escape.

The major problem with these new gifts was that they had not developed yet. Her diamond skin had emerged during puberty, and with her half-sister Kayla learning to control her own powers, the two girls had disciplined themselves and explored the uses of their gifts. Yet now, with the suspected telepathy just beginning to become active within her, Emma was at a loss. It took enormous amounts of effort to wield her telepathy, and with secrecy holding firm as the safer option in comparison to practice, the young woman found it easier to just block any incoming thoughts and ignore the mental impressions she would occasionally receive.

Sometimes, though, it was difficult.

The week before, William Stryker himself had sat in on her weekly laboratory examinations – apparently, he made a point to look over each mutant at least once to assess the usefulness of their powers. And that day – as usual, Emma began her weekly policy of obstinacy. The first half-hour was spent in diamond-form, fighting against the musclemen charged with escorting her to the laboratory. Then, the enemy became the restraints intended to keep her limbs locked down on the steel examination table. By the time her diamond skin was keeping the many needles at bay, the doctors and lab technicians began prepping her for anesthesia pumped through an oxygen mask.

All the while, Stryker observed. He did not bother to lend a hand. He just watched unflinchingly – apathetically, one might say. And Emma thoroughly hated him. She hated him for everything that had happened and for everyone locked up in his little mutant collection. She _hated_ him.

When the inhaled drugs began to kick in, the young blonde's diamond exterior faded back into penetrable flesh and her muscles relaxed, her mind already starting to slip into an induced slumber. Yet, in those brief moments between physical transformation and heavy slumber, her mental blocks loosened along with her tense muscles. And through the oncoming haze of drugged unconsciousness, Emma was granted but a glimpse of William Stryker's mind.

The moment, though brief, convinced the girl of whatever vague suspicions she had previously harbored; Stryker wanted to control mutations and bend them to his whim. He wished to play God and create a whole new breed of soldier – perfect, deadly, and utterly obedient.

Her huddled form in the cage's corner shuddered at the thought. Already, Stryker held too much power…

Emma refused to let him gain anymore. In fact, she wanted to strip away every layer of technology, resources, and _sanity_ the man possessed. She _wanted_ to, yes. But would she? Likely not, even if her freedom were miraculously obtained. Restrained by fear and her own moral compass, Emma figured she would not have it in her reduce the man to the same torment he had shown to her and so many other mutants. Instead, were she free, she would probably just live her life on the run – from the threat of future capture and the haunting of past memories.

Still. Emma could not allow Stryker's Project X to continue any further. It was deplorable, and the merest shadow of the man's plans lingered in the girl's mind, the idea nearly bringing her to her knees with the urge to retch.

But first thing was first. Escape. Once she could manage that, then the blonde could worry about foiling Project X. And maybe after, there would be justice.

Emma refused to plan too far ahead – could not allow herself to linger on specifics. Could not dare to hope that she would see her big sister again… Would not presume to believe that her college scholarship would be open and waiting for her… Should not dream of moving on one day after achieving freedom, because if escape from Three Mile Island was unlikely, then regaining her former innocence, serenity, and _mercy_ would be impossible.

Captivity was turning Emma hard inside. Hard like the diamonds that could coat her skin. And rapidly, she was learning what it meant to survive.

Sometimes, survival meant no mercy.

Staring out through the bars of her cage, Emma desperately wished for her freedom… Soon, before her well of compassion ran dry.

Yet, before the young woman could brood over the topic further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the large room, bouncing off of the chill concrete floor. Cocking her head to one side, Emma corrected her initial assessment. It was one pair of expensive shoes striding evenly with purpose and precision, one pair of large, padded footfalls with the steps muffled as if by… _fur_, and the sound of a figure being dragged towards the mutant cages.

Well, she had already figured out the identities of the two walking men. Zero, Stryker's personal sharp-shooting assassin, always strode with clipped, measured paces, each step as meaningful and exact as every bullet that left one of his guns. Though he did not _often_ frequent the main room of the warehouse in which the captives were held, Zero conducted a visual inspection of the cages once every evening for Stryker, ensuring that all of the mutants were still locked away and the cages in perfect working order.

Strangely enough, the deliberate clip of the marksman's footsteps became Emma's only measurement of the passing hours and the marking of the days.

As for the furred footsteps… it was obviously Victor – or Sabretooth, as the captive mutants fearfully labeled him. Each of his steps were weighted, padding, and nearly silent from his bare feet and the muffled effect of his fur. He frequently prowled up around the cages when he was bored, and nearly as noiseless as a jungle cat on the hunt, he was especially fond of hovering near the mutants' faces as they slept, simply waiting – eyes unblinking – until they awoke. So many of the captives had woken with a scream from the startling and chill image of Sabretooth's feral grin just on the other side of the cage's bars.

Thuswise, the caged mutants learned quickly the particular tread of their least favorite cat.

But, as for the person being dragged by Victor… Emma was drawing a blank. She supposed that it could be yet another mutant for Stryker's caged collection. Well, the blonde would certainly find out, for the next available cell was next to her own.

Its previous occupant had been younger than her, and the spindly adolescent girl was still in the midst of the first onset of her powers, still adjusting and too frightened by the situation to even tell the other girl what her powers could do.

But as near as Emma could tell, Amy – far too small for her age – had always had a weak constitution, had always been in and out of hospitals. The rigorous weekly lab examination combined with the poor living conditions and the nutrient-lacking twice-daily mush had been too much for the girl. Emma had done her best to lift her spirits at times, and offered what comfort she could: holding the girl's hand through the cage bars, soothing away Amy's fright after another of Victor's morning wake-up calls, forcing her only blanket through the bars so that the younger girl might be warmer, and pushing the girl to swallow down not only her own mush but some of Emma's as well. All of this and more, the eighteen-year-old blond did for her young compatriot, but the one thing Amy _asked_ for was stories. So, clasping Amy's lean hand, she would tell tales she once heard, anecdotes of her childhood, or stories she made up on the spot.

For over a month, Emma watched her little neighbor waste away before Amy fell asleep and never woke up. Over a month of nearly non-stop stories. And when it was done, Victor came to watch the "frail's" cold body being dragged away by two lab technicians for more invasive study. Only when Zero's quick march around the warehouse was over that evening did Emma wrap herself up in her own blanket and shed a few silent tears in memory of the girl called Amy.

By now, the three men were in sight, visible through the many layers of cage bars. As they traveled down the central walkway between the two rows of cells, the grubby faces of the captives stared out at the procession, wary and waiting, for it must be someone especially unusual for Victor and Zero to personally drop him off in his cage.

Emma, too, kept her eyes peeled, watching their approach, even as she purposefully avoided looking at either the furball or the assassin's face – eye contact, after all, would just be inviting attention, and the young woman knew from observing her fellow captives that it was never good to get noticed. That sort of thing was a sure way of getting Sabretooth's ugly mug in your face when you woke up. And mouthing off? Well, Emma had seen the consequences of that, too – and it was always bloody.

As the chuckling Victor tugged and then dropped the man into the adjacent cell, Emma tried to get a clearer picture of her latest companion's identity. His body was turned in the opposite direction from her, but she _was_ able to ascertain a few things… He looked older than Emma by maybe ten years. He was tall, suntanned, and clearly _very_ fit, and he had brown hair that was currently mussed from Sabretooth's less-than-stellar transportation method.

Having thus examined her new neighbor to a certain extent, Emma made sure to move her indifferent gaze elsewhere – it would not do to show too much interest, after all. Not with Victor present. But as she stared off into the distance, her brows furrowed slightly… Her new neighbor looked _familiar_. Something in his build, his height, his… Emma internally shook it off, letting suspicion settle into certainty.

He looked familiar. He looked like Wade Wilson.

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	2. Emma Meets the Merc with the Mouth

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Chapter 2: In Which Emma Meets the Merc With the Mouth

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Wade Wilson. Stryker had locked up _Wade Wilson_, his own mercenary. It was perhaps the most unlikely thing that had occurred since Emma was captured. Then again, she internally corrected, Wilson was known for being a smart ass, so perhaps his incarceration was inevitable. It was mind-boggling nonetheless, though, for her to see one of Them stuck behind bars with Us.

When Emma was taken from her home in the middle of the night, it was by Victor and Wilson… The young blonde had been torn from her sleep by rough, clawed hands gripped over her mouth, muffling her cries of surprise, fear, and alarm. Sabretooth had been all grins, his fangs bared in a gruesome smile as he tugged her to her feet and forced her to march out the front door in her pajamas of a white camisole and blue shorts.

Wade Wilson, besides the occasional comment to Victor about not being too rough with her, had simply hung back and allowed the feral man to shove her in the back of the black, unmarked military van. Thankfully, Victor had moved to the cab of the vehicle in order to drive while the man with dual katanas slung across his back sat across from her in the back of the van.

"So," the mercenary had grinned, "Come here often?"

And strangely enough, his offhand joke had made Emma laugh – made her laugh as she sobbed there in the back of the van. His words had spawned a realization. The big kitty in the driver's seat was proof that whatever she was taken for had to do with her _gifts_, as Kayla called them. And those gifts would make her life hell one way or another. And, stung by shock and sadness, the only possible way she could react to Wilson's words were laughter and tears.

When the tears dried and the laughter stopped, Emma was left bent over her knees, heaving – gasping – for breath. And with the wisecracking mercenary awkwardly rubbing circles on her back, she slowly, ever so slowly, began to calm, taking deeper, longer breaths.

As she regained her composure, the girl sloughed off her usual sweet and easygoing disposition, leaving behind the hard, impenetrable core within her character. For, as much as Emma Frost was kind and friendly and good… there was always a part of her that was cool, calculating, and utterly unbreakable – and it was not just her diamond skin. Narrowing her eyes as she stared at the metal floor of the van, Emma had banked up all of her determination, her resentment, and silently made herself a vow. _She would not cooperate. She would not yield. She _would_ survive. And one way or another, she would regain her freedom._

Brushing off the man's hand, Emma slouched petulantly against the side of the van, crossing her arms in front of her. And, glaring at the man across from her, she berated herself for the situation. The _moment_ she woke up and saw her attacker, she should have transformed to diamond. She should have fought back; she could probably have staved them off – or at least surprised them – long enough for her to have run away.

Thus, the long drive from California to Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania began. Between gas station fill-ups, fast food drive-throughs, bathroom breaks, and attempted escapes (on Emma's part), the drive was long and _full_. Wade Wilson was always talking, it seemed; he babbled on even when no one listened, sometimes even as he slept. He never said anything that could have helped Emma, though; it seemed that, though chatty, arrogant, and reckless, the man knew not to speak about certain things with a prisoner. Victor talked little, growled more, and scowled constantly. As for Emma, she refused to become chummy with Wade. Refused. However charming or amusing his jokes and stories, she would not let herself become emotionally invested in her kidnapper. She had heard about Stockholm syndrome, and she could see how someone might consider Wade Wilson charming – he was handsome, after all. But her? Never. She would not allow herself to sacrifice her freedom any further by even considering Wade in a more positive light.

With Victor, Emma had no difficulty at all when it came to hating the man. He was a brute, plain and simple. And the only concession she would allow Wade Wilson was that she liked him better than Victor Creed. After all, she liked _everyone_ better than Creed.

So Emma let her silence fill up the van as well. She let the silence overtake her until the mercenary's babbling and the snarls from the driver were white noise in comparison to the raucous din of her thoughts.

And when the van finally arrived at the Three Mile Island Facility, Emma decided to let her internal mulishness have a heyday. Even if she could not escape, she was not about to make things easy for the thugs. But her struggling – even in her diamond form – gave her captors little pause, though Wade did stop, awestruck, to comment on how "expensive" she looked – which, even in her stew of resentment, made her want to chuckle.

Now, though, _Wade Wilson_ was lying in the cell next-door, weak, pale, and _silent._ Frankly, no matter how much Emma told herself that he was just another one of Them, his presence, behavior, and appearance was worrisome.

When compared to Them (everyone in the facility _besides_ the mutant captives), Wilson was one of the better ones. Sure, every now and then you had a doctor that winced when he stuck you with needles or a lab technician that told you she was sorry for the pain. And occasionally, there would even be a guard that would frown when Victor decided one of the mouthy captives needed a bruising. But Wade Wilson? He was something else.

He was a smart-ass to everyone and not blindly obedient, so the mutants could tell that he was at least doing the job for money or some other payoff. Emma could reluctantly accept that, especially since he enjoyed pissing off Stryker and his cronies. But when Wade was not out on the job, he would often hang around in the warehouse, leaning against the far wall and watching over the caged mutants from a distance. His figure was always indifferent and relaxed, neither pitying their state nor intimidating them, and so, in time, the caged teens and adolescents came to regard him as just another fixture in the room.

The mercenary clearly was interested in the captives somehow, or maybe he was just bored, but either way, he did not harm or help, and so his presence was accepted. He was no longer regarded as one of Them, but he was not one of Us, either. He was the Other. Neutral. Separate. Alone.

Often, when left unsupervised, the captives talked to one another, and Wade watched and listened and did nothing. Emma was actually one of the elder captives, and thus, with her resolute spirit and innate leadership qualities, she became one of the more prominent members of their little captive band.

When a new "mutant acquisition" joined them in the cells, Emma sent out the word for the neighbor to give the newbie the run-down of the place. _Don't speak out. Beware of Sabretooth. Don't get noticed. Don't make eye contact. Stay away from the cage's entrance. They'll be back soon to take you for an initial examination, but don't worry – usually they only take us to the lab once a week…_ It became almost tradition for one of the adjacent captives to become the new mutant's mentor of sorts. The mentor also had the pleasure of making introductions to the best of their ability – sometimes it was difficult to see through all of the bars to distant cells. Still, they managed, though the introductions were usually a little strange to hear when one had just recently arrived.

"_That's Mortimer Toynbee," one mutant would whisper through the bars. "He's English. Stryker picked him up out of the orphanage. He's Mutant Subject #12, according to the white-coats. He goes by Toad, though. And his mutant powers… well, the nickname says it all, doesn't it?"_

"_The little girl across from you is Alison Blaire, MS #32. We call her Dazzler 'cause she can make light shows out of sounds. And she likes to sing herself to sleep, so don't freak out if you see lights around her when she does… She's really a good singer, though. You're lucky to be within earshot – she keeps it fairly quiet so Sabretooth and the guards won't hear her."_

"_Over there is Emma Frost. She was taken from her home in California just two weeks before she could start college. Bummer, right? She's MS #9. She's one of the oldest among us, and she's been here longer than most of us… so she's kind of a big deal. She's sort of like our big kahuna, I guess. We call her the White Queen. When she started taking care of everybody and issuing pointers to newbies like you, Toad started calling her Queenie. It sort of stuck. As for the _White_ Queen? Well, she can turn her skin to diamond – just wait 'til you see it."_

"_Doug Ramsey, MS #19. He can speak anything – Portuguese, computer code, or the Macarena. If it's a form of communication, he can understand and speak it back. He's known as Cypher around here."_

"_On your other side is Piotr Rasputin. He's about nineteen year old, we think, and the lab techs know him as MS #25. He's a real nice guy, but he's Russian and doesn't speak English very well. The White Queen is trying to help him learn – apparently she took a few Russian language classes on a whim, and Cypher's too far away to be much help. She named him Colossus because he's such a big guy, back before we knew what his power was because of the whole language barrier thing. Anyway, we got to see him in action recently; apparently, he can turn into metal. Sort of similar to the Queen, right? How kickass would it be to see the two of them team up!"_

"_Oh, her? That's Tabitha Smith, MS #47. She's thirteen and she just got her powers. I heard her dad willingly handed her over to Stryker, the bastard. She can make these little energy bomb things, so she goes by Boom Boom here. She's a bit of a wild card but she's lots of fun to be around – just wait until you see her cross her eyes at Sabretooth's back as he leaves the cell block!"_

Now, once again, it was Emma's turn to act as welcome-wagon. But… it was _Wade Wilson_. The same man who had captured her and brought her to the Three Mile Island Facility under orders. The same man that had watched her with interest in his eyes as she had whispered stories to Amy through the cell bars. The White Queen sighed. She could either ignore his presence – and he would thus be ostracized by the other mutant prisoners – or she could speak to him, find out why he was thrown in with them. Either way, whatever she chose, the other captives would follow her lead – _that_ she knew.

Another sigh. She might as well speak to the guy, he might have information to share. He might even be a valuable asset…

Noting that it had been several minutes since Sabretooth and Zero had left the cell block, Emma shuffled over to the left side of her cage, pressing her side against the bars between Wade Wilson and herself.

"Wilson," she called softly, sternly. "Turn around. You've been around to watch this from the sidelines – you know the drill."

"Oooh, I get a visit from the hospitality brigade, too?" the mercenary bantered, rolling over to face her. His face was paler and more careworn than usual. "I'm flattered! I thought I'd be subject of shunning – like in those Amish communities. What do they call it? Is it _Meidung_? It's a funny word, right? Sounds like 'my dung'."

Emma shook her head to hide a slight smile. "I don't care. Now," she began, trying to get back to business, "how many times have you overheard introductions? And do you need them repeated for your benefit?"

"Nah, I'm good, Miss _White Queen_," he smirked. "You might want to chat me up longer, though, so you could send out the latest info on the newbie. Am I right?"

Emma nodded. After telling the new captive the survival tips and the names and descriptions of the other mutants, it was the mentor's duty to extract similar information from the new kid and then pass it along the grapevine. Wade Wilson really _had_ been keeping an eye on them.

"So, what's the story then Wade?" she asked. "Mercenary turned mutant prisoner? Somehow, I doubt it. Stryker wouldn't throw you in here for another jackass comment. Why'd he toss you in with his little lab experiments?"

The mercenary's smirk grew. "Well," Wade said, pulling his arms up under his head, "I'm about to become one of his little lab experiments – in a _big_ way. If Stryker keeps his promise, I'll be getting an accelerated healing factor – something to keep my cancer at bay for a good long while…" His brows furrowed slightly as his smirk turned down into a worried little frown. "Of course," he added, "that's _if_ I can trust Stryker to keep his word. Somehow, I'm not holding my breath."

While Emma agreed about Stryker's personal code of honor, her thoughts had snagged on his previous words… "So I was right?" she gasped softly. "He's trying to _control _mutations – extract and implant them? But if I was right about that…" She trailed off. Leaning in nearer to the mercenary's cage, Emma's volume lowered further, "He won't stop there, Wade. He won't just extract and implant… He won't just let you heal. It'll get worse. He's playing God, here. _He wants the perfect soldier_."

At her final words, Wade turned his head sharply to stare at her, reading her expressions. "You said 'the perfect soldier?' Where did you hear it?"

Confusion bled over the girl's features. "Is it familiar to you?" she queried.

"Stryker once said that if it weren't for my mouth, I'd be the perfect soldier…" he mused aloud.

The blonde stared back into his brown eyes. "He intends to make you into Weapon XI, the perfect soldier – I know that for certain."

Wilson swiftly reached through the bars and grabbed her arm, holding it tightly. "How do you know?" he asked tersely, his usual playful manner utterly absent.

Emma bit her lip to keep herself from crying out at the unexpected contact. "Are you a spy for Stryker, Wade? Are you here to _spy_ on us? Tell me. I don't think you'd lie to me, but… Tell me, and I'll answer your question."

The truth of it was that she really did not think Wade Wilson would lie. He would mouth of, make a joke, or divert attention… but Emma did not believe he would outright lie. Not to her. Something about his eyes watching as she told Amy stories... He would not lie to _her_.

"I'm not a spy, Frost," he replied, their eye contact steady. Gently, the man released his grip on her arm, letting his hand trail downwards to her wrist. Pressing his fingers lightly against her pulse, he waited for her explanation.

"I believe I have a secondary mutation that is just beginning to become active. Telepathy," she remarked steadily. "It's still difficult for me to work with it at this point, but in my last lab examination when Stryker was observing, I had a brief moment of clarity, so to speak. I got a glimpse of Stryker's thoughts… about how he is going to create the _perfect soldier_. He believes that mutants need to be _controlled_ – and I don't think he means that in a segregation-law or internment-camp kind of way. I'm pretty sure he means to literally _control_ his soldiers – like a puppet-master holding the strings."

As silence fell between the two once again, Emma watched as the mercenary's rage settled into veiled disgust. "Well," he remarked offhand, "I always knew the guy was a bastard."

Emma decided that _that_ was a major understatement.

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	3. The Queen Hires the Merc

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Chapter 3: In Which the Queen Hires the Merc

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Hours had passed since Wade had been tossed into the cell, and Emma could tell that the mercenary was getting _bored_. He fiddled with his metal bowl of mush, making the occasional comment about the food's taste and texture. "It's looks and feels like day-old oatmeal… but it tastes like cheap cardboard. And sadly," he babbled, "I think that freeze-dried astronaut food tastes better than this – and that stuff tastes like chalk! Hey, Frost, don't astronauts have to recycle their pee to make drinking water?"

Putting a hand up over her mouth, the blue-eyed young woman tried to stifle her smile.

Though occasionally irritating, Wade Wilson was guaranteed to be a constant source of entertainment. And frankly, Emma Frost was grateful for his loudmouthed, extroverted presence – far too often she found herself getting lost in her own thoughts. But with her mercenary neighbor? Well, she found that his ADHD kept her mentally present, if only to marvel at what topic his leapfrog-mind would jump to next.

"So do I get to join your little cell-block society club?" Wade jested, turning to face the blonde with a sideways grin.

"Well…" Emma drawled, pursing her lips and giving the mercenary a mock once-over with her eyes. "I suppose you'll _do_. You're a bit old, though," she could not help adding.

Wade Wilson was all false outraged astonishment. "_What?_ I'll have you know that this body is prime goods!" he told the blonde, sending her a wink as he moved his hands over his chest as demonstration.

Unconsciously, Emma's attentive blue eyes followed the movement. His chest was broad and strong and all-too visible through the white tanktop that – combined with the burgundy coverall – made up the prisoners' uniform. As she watched his hands, she silently thanked her lucky stars that the man had pushed down the top of the coverall to wear it as only pants… It gave her quite the view.

The young blonde's eyes widened in shock over the direction her thoughts had been going. Quickly averting her eyes, she prayed that the man had not noticed her practically salivating over his body – he would never let her live it down. But it was too late. Wade – always watching her carefully – noticed it, his own grin widening further at his audience's response.

"Oh, there's nothing to be shy about, sweet cheeks!" he crowed. His voice lowered, then, and his sharp eyes became intent on her own. "I like looking at your chest, too…"

Emma's jaw tightened. If the cell bars were not separating them, she would have given him a slap like he would not believe… "You're such a lecher, Wade," she rebuked, sending him a glare.

"Hey," he replied, putting his hands up in surrender, "I'm _not_ the one who started our little mutual appreciation workshop. Remember, Hungry Eyes? Besides, you should have told me you wanted something a little less blatant! How about a nice sonnet, hm? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?/ Nay, thou art frostier and bustier./ No matter what that spitfire blonde might say,/ I know she wants to flash me her brassiere./ If snow be white, why then her breasts are sparkly;/ If hairs be wires, hers can turn to diamond…"

"Wade, _please _stop," Emma garbled out, half-shocked and shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Oh good," he agreed. "I wasn't sure where I was going with that…"

Laughing aloud now, the blonde shook her head. "That was a _horrible_ poem, I hope you know."

"Yes," he agreed, "I'm no Byron. And taking Shakespeare's words in vain? Despicable of me. But still, at least it sort of rhymed…"

"Sort of, yes."

He nodded, grinning and pleased with himself at her admission. "So, do I get to know the secret handshake for the Captives Club now that I've made you laugh?"

"No handshake, I'm afraid – just three signals," Emma corrected.

Wade tilted his head, confused. "Three? I thought it was only two?"

Biting back her initial response of smiling at his bemusement, the White Queen confided, "You were only supposed to overhear two." The man shrugged, focusing all of his attention on her as he waited to get the tutorial. Raising her hand above the concrete, Emma smacked it down as if to bang it against the floor – but she paused, just before contact. "One rap means 'incoming' – used for Victor, Zero, the lab techs and the rest. Twice signals that they've left. And three times…" she drew out, her eyes twinkling, "means 'Wade Wilson' – it indicates that you've either arrived or left the warehouse."

Eyes wide, the mercenary looked like an enthralled schoolboy. "You're pulling my leg, Frost. Little ol' me getting my own signal? Unlikely."

"No, it's true," Emma pressed with a small smile. "You're always hanging around, anyway, so we don't use it often – just a few times a day. With Sabretooth and the rest, I feel like every couple of hours we're pounding out signals…"

"Yeah," the man frowned in disgust, "That overgrown cat _does_ have an unhealthy fixation on you guys – well, you guys and his brother Jimmy. I swear, the guy has a complex. Maybe two or five."

"He gives us all the willies, that's for sure," Emma nodded. Shaking off the shiver of terror that crawled up her spine even at the thought of Sabretooth, the young woman changed topics. "Wade… Now that you know about Weapon XI, will you help me and the others escape from here?"

"Escape?" Wade nearly laughed at the thought. "You and what army? This place is locked down tight, Frost – military style. As in, surrender or they will shoot on sight."

Emma smirked. "Take a look around, Wade. We're _mutants_. We're our own army – and we don't need to stop and reload on bullets. We can do this, I _know_ we can. We just need a feasible plan."

Wade's eyes turned contemplative. "…I suppose you're right. To an extent," he agreed. "You all have powerful abilities. Useful ones. But all of you are still just kids. You're not soldiers. Not yet."

"Exactly! We're not soldiers _yet_." Emma breathed deeply before sharing her thoughts further. "The way I figure it, the situation will turn us into soldiers one way or another. But there are different kinds of soldiers… When Stryker's done experimenting with us, what's to stop him from trying to control us, too? We'd become mindless killing machines, then. But if we teach ourselves to fight back, not to kill or maim or seek revenge but for a cause – our survival and freedom, then that's a whole different ballgame, isn't it? In fact, I don't think we'd be soldiers at all – we'd be warriors."

"Interesting assessment, Frost," Wade smirked in reply. "And not all wrong, either. But still, I doubt these kids would have it in them to do what's necessary to reach freedom."

Emma shook her head. "You've watched us all this while, but you don't see it? A cornered animal is the most dangerous… And we've sat here, day by day, stewing in our own resentment and desperation. I can feel what's happening around me Wade, with and without the telepathy. If you strike a match among us, we'd explode. The time is coming when we'll fight back… and either reach our freedom or die in the attempt. Besides, we have to try soon no matter what, before the captivity takes too great a toll upon us mentally. I've done what I can to encourage socialization and greater stability – even our own sort of infrastructure and chain of command – in order to keep us all better grounded. But it won't last forever. Soon, someone will crack. Badly. Irreparably. And everyone else will have to witness it. From there, it will be panic and an avalanche of mental instability. It's amazing we've lasted this long, actually – being unable to feel safe at any moment of the day… it wears away at one's nerves."

The mercenary soaked in her words. "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?" The girl nodded. He sighed. "You've done a brilliant job keeping everyone grounded and in line, I'll give you that." Mussing his hair weakly with one hand, he continued, "So tell me… what do we have in our arsenal? I know the powers, but we need to know the capabilities of the _people_ – that's what really decides their usefulness."

"Is that your answer then, Wade?" Emma wondered, excitement and hope rising up in her throat, thick enough to choke on.

"Yeah, I guess it is."

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